When The Sermon Turns Sour
Sermon
Praying For A Whole New World
Gospel Sermons For Advent/Christmas/Epiphany Cycle C
I want to let you in on an industry secret. Ready? Most preachers have a difficult time preaching in the congregations where they grew up.
It is true for me. I was recently invited to preach in the church where I grew up. My mixed feelings about the invitation were justified. Before anybody heard a word I said, they remembered little Billy Carter, who made paper airplanes out of worship bulletins and dropped them from the balcony when nobody was looking. Even the newcomers who joined long after I moved away had been indoctrinated. They knew members of my family, and that became the filter through which they heard the content of my sermon. Before that congregation heard me, they already knew me.
So I can understand something of what is going on as Jesus returns home in this passage from the fourth chapter of Luke. He goes to Nazareth, his hometown (Luke underscores this point). No sooner does he read the Scriptures, and the murmurs are buzzing. "Isn't this Joseph's son? We know him. We like him. We expect him to be gracious and well-spoken."
It is difficult for a preacher to go back home. Everybody knows you. That is the problem. Of all the sayings of Jesus, one of the few things he said that appears in all four gospels is that a prophet gets no respect in a prophet's hometown.1 Or to put it another way, "You become an expert only after you move more than ten miles from home."
It is possible to get too comfortable, particularly with the things that matter most. That's especially true for anybody who reads and studies the Bible. In one of his books, Tom Long once made an astute observation about what often happens in the minister's study.
It is amazing how many of us, if someone were to ask us our view of biblical authority and inspiration, would articulate a dynamic view of the living and active biblical word. We would be full of ideas about how texts are always creatively engaging us with truths ever new. That is our official position, but in practice we look at a familiar text, like the "Prodigal Son," and we treat it as if it were a slightly senile dinner companion who tells the same story over and over again and never says anything new. We give the text a quick glance, maybe sneak a peek at a commentary or two just to make sure that what we have always thought that text was about is what it is about, and then stew about how to say the same old thing in some sparkling way.2
The assumption, of course, is that this or any other Bible passage is the "same old thing," and that there is no power in the same, old thing. And so, you have to find something new in order to be heard.
When I began my work as a preacher, I spent a lot of time poking around the pages of Scripture for something unusual. My only objective was to find something that would prompt me to say, "This will get them." I would find something in the book of Obadiah and preach on it, murmuring, "I'll bet they have never heard this before." I was right; they had never heard it before. As a result, it had no power. No authority. No sense of importance or urgency.
Once in a while, I would give in and turn to a text that everybody had heard before. At coffee hour, folks would say, "Whew! You really gave it to us today!" Little by little, it began to dawn on me: The power of the prophetic word does not come from roaming a far country where no one has gone before. The real power of the gospel comes from reminding the people of God of what they already know.3
At a far deeper level, that's what happened in Nazareth that day. Jesus strolls into his hometown. And yes, everybody knew him. He takes the dusty scroll of Isaiah, finds his place, and reads, "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, and has 'christened' me to bring good news." And everybody nods and says, "That's right! Preach the word!" So Jesus tells them two more stories out of their own Bible, a story about Elijah and a story about Elisha. Suddenly the crowd growls, curses him, and tries to hurl him over a cliff.
All Jesus did was to tell a couple of Bible stories that his listeners already knew. As a result, they wanted to murder him. Those who were most familiar with him turned against him, and wanted to put him to death.
No doubt, when the writer of the Gospel of Luke thinks about Jesus, he has the ancient prophets in mind, those unmanageable people who got up and spoke a Word from God. Luke is well aware that Jesus stands at the end of a long line of prophetic succession. And for him, that's the root of all the trouble.
According to the story, some friends feared for his safety. In chapter 13, they warn Jesus, "Stay away from the Holy City. Your life is in danger." But Jesus replies to them out of the side of his mouth: "I must go to Jerusalem, I absolutely must; because that's the city that always kills the prophets."
Not long after that, Jesus comes around the bend on Palm Sunday. He sees the city, stops dead in his tracks, and begins to weep. "Jerusalem, Jerusalem! If only you knew the things that make for peace. Instead you are too busy murdering the prophets."
Even on Easter: the news came out that Jesus was risen; but his own disciples didn't believe it. Jesus joins two of them on the road to Emmaus, but they do not recognize them. So as they walk, Jesus interprets the Bible. He reminds them of what the Good Book says. And it fills his disciples with heartburn.
Luke wants us to know that the most scandalous thing we can ever do is to hear the Bible. The most outrageous thing we can do is to take the Bible seriously, not only as a comforting word, but also as a deeply disturbing word. The main reason why it is so disturbing is that it reminds us that God does not play by our rules or stick to our boundaries.
Some of you have heard about Clarence Jordan, founder of Koinonia Farm in Georgia. He started a peanut farm and tried to run it the same way he thought Jesus would run it. He believed in a good wage for an honest day's work. He believed in taking care of the land and those who work it. And he believed that all people -- black and white -- could work together and stand together. It was the early 1950s, and his local Baptist church did not agree with his thoughts on racial equality.
One time, an agricultural student from Florida State University visited Koinonia Farm for the weekend. The student was from India, and said, "I've never gone to a Christian worship service. I would like to go." Clarence took him to Rehoboth Baptist Church, and it is reported that "the presence of his dark skin miraculously chilled the hot, humid southern Georgia atmosphere."4 It didn't matter that he was from India. He had dark skin, not a red neck --and so he did not fit in.
After worship, the pastor drove out to Jordan's farm and said, "You can't come with somebody like that. It causes disunity in our church." Jordan tried to explain, but the pastor wasn't listening.
Sometime later, a group of church leaders went out to the farm to plead with Clarence to keep undesirable people out of their church. As the story goes, Clarence promised to apologize before the congregation if somebody could prove he had done something wrong. Then he handed a Bible to a man in the group and said, "Can you tell me what sin I have committed by bringing a stranger to church?"
The man slammed down the book and said, "Don't give me any of this Bible stuff!"
Clarence retorted, "I'm not giving you any Bible stuff. I'm asking you to give it to me."
The man and the others did not know what to say; so they slipped out. When they got back to the church, they wrote a letter and said, "Mr. Jordan, you are no longer welcome in our church, because you keep bringing in the wrong kind of people."
As one commentator notes, "Jesus is not acceptable in his own country because his mission extends beyond his own country."5 Israel was called to be a light to the nations, a beacon of God's mercy for all people everywhere. When God's light began to shine in Jesus of Nazareth, it exposed dark crevasses everywhere, even in Israel. Some of the people slithered out of the dark and tried to snuff out the light.
It is much more comforting to believe that you have learned all you need to learn, to affirm that the way you have always done it before is a good way to keep on doing it. That is a satisfying way to ride through the whitewater of change. Just hang on and coast for a while. It works fairly well, until you realize that the way you always did it before may not have been the way it was always done.
Remember a few years ago? There was a piece in a national magazine about a scholar in a major university. After years of careful historical research, this shy professor discovered there was a period in the Middle Ages when the Roman Catholic Church approved of, and actually conducted, marriages between gay couples. He had the facts to prove it. And the Vatican tried to squelch his research in a hurry.
In Nazareth, a sermon turned sour. It started out sounding so familiar and comforting. And then Jesus raised a question: "How far is God's reach?" It was, and still is, a troubling issue. To think that the reach of God might far extend our own! To consider that the kind of people with whom God might choose to associate is different from our list. That is disturbing.
I worshiped one Sunday at a church in a seaside city in another state. The 11:00 service was jammed for something they called "Scottish Heritage Sunday." All the men were wearing plaid skirts. Some of the women were, too. I looked around that sun-tanned congregation while the bagpipes were playing. It was obvious from their appearance that most of those people in that congregation had gotten off their yachts, walked up the boulevard past all the specialty shops, and entered the church. They seemed so comfortable and settled. I, on the other hand, didn't feel for a minute like I fit in. And I sat there thinking, "Good thing there isn't a ghetto around here, or a Gay Pride parade on the street outside, or visitors from India -- because people like that wouldn't be welcome."
Oh, I know -- every church likes to paint a big sign and put it above the door: "We are a friendly church. Everybody is welcome." But when you go inside some churches, you realize it is reserved seating only.
Jesus looked at his Jewish congregation and said, "Let me tell you a Bible story. Remember Elijah? He was the greatest of all our prophets. And there was a famine in the land of Israel for three years and six months. Crops withered. The soil cracked. Not a drop of rain for years. And there were a lot of widows in the land of Israel in the time of Elijah. But remember where he went? God sent Elijah to a Gentile woman in Sidon."
"Let me tell you another story," Jesus said. "Remember Elisha? He followed Elijah, and whatever spirit Elijah had, well, Elisha was given a double share of it. He was a powerful man. And in his time, there were many people with leprosy in the land of Israel. They were sick and covered with sores. But Elisha didn't heal any of them. Instead he was sent to Na'aman, a Gentile army commander in Syria. And he healed the Gentile; he didn't heal any of the Jews."
When the Jewish people heard this, they were absolutely furious. It suddenly struck them what Jesus was really saying. He was declaring the disturbing news that God loves everybody, particularly those beyond their tight, exclusive circle. It was, and is, a scandalous thing to say.
The only thing more disturbing is to remember how that is the sort of thing that is written down in our Bibles.
____________
1. As reported in Matthew 13:57, Mark 6:4, Luke 4:24, and John 4:44.
2. Thomas G. Long, The Senses of Preaching (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1988), p. 31.
3. I am grateful to Dr. Fred B. Craddock for these insights.
4. The story is reported by Dallas Lee, The Cotton Patch Evidence: The Story of Clarence Jordan and the Koinoia Farm Experiment (New York: Harper and Row, 1971), pp. 75-76.
5. Luke Timothy Johnson, Sacra Pagina: The Gospel of Luke (Collegeville, Minn.: The Liturgical Press, 1991), p. 82.
It is true for me. I was recently invited to preach in the church where I grew up. My mixed feelings about the invitation were justified. Before anybody heard a word I said, they remembered little Billy Carter, who made paper airplanes out of worship bulletins and dropped them from the balcony when nobody was looking. Even the newcomers who joined long after I moved away had been indoctrinated. They knew members of my family, and that became the filter through which they heard the content of my sermon. Before that congregation heard me, they already knew me.
So I can understand something of what is going on as Jesus returns home in this passage from the fourth chapter of Luke. He goes to Nazareth, his hometown (Luke underscores this point). No sooner does he read the Scriptures, and the murmurs are buzzing. "Isn't this Joseph's son? We know him. We like him. We expect him to be gracious and well-spoken."
It is difficult for a preacher to go back home. Everybody knows you. That is the problem. Of all the sayings of Jesus, one of the few things he said that appears in all four gospels is that a prophet gets no respect in a prophet's hometown.1 Or to put it another way, "You become an expert only after you move more than ten miles from home."
It is possible to get too comfortable, particularly with the things that matter most. That's especially true for anybody who reads and studies the Bible. In one of his books, Tom Long once made an astute observation about what often happens in the minister's study.
It is amazing how many of us, if someone were to ask us our view of biblical authority and inspiration, would articulate a dynamic view of the living and active biblical word. We would be full of ideas about how texts are always creatively engaging us with truths ever new. That is our official position, but in practice we look at a familiar text, like the "Prodigal Son," and we treat it as if it were a slightly senile dinner companion who tells the same story over and over again and never says anything new. We give the text a quick glance, maybe sneak a peek at a commentary or two just to make sure that what we have always thought that text was about is what it is about, and then stew about how to say the same old thing in some sparkling way.2
The assumption, of course, is that this or any other Bible passage is the "same old thing," and that there is no power in the same, old thing. And so, you have to find something new in order to be heard.
When I began my work as a preacher, I spent a lot of time poking around the pages of Scripture for something unusual. My only objective was to find something that would prompt me to say, "This will get them." I would find something in the book of Obadiah and preach on it, murmuring, "I'll bet they have never heard this before." I was right; they had never heard it before. As a result, it had no power. No authority. No sense of importance or urgency.
Once in a while, I would give in and turn to a text that everybody had heard before. At coffee hour, folks would say, "Whew! You really gave it to us today!" Little by little, it began to dawn on me: The power of the prophetic word does not come from roaming a far country where no one has gone before. The real power of the gospel comes from reminding the people of God of what they already know.3
At a far deeper level, that's what happened in Nazareth that day. Jesus strolls into his hometown. And yes, everybody knew him. He takes the dusty scroll of Isaiah, finds his place, and reads, "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, and has 'christened' me to bring good news." And everybody nods and says, "That's right! Preach the word!" So Jesus tells them two more stories out of their own Bible, a story about Elijah and a story about Elisha. Suddenly the crowd growls, curses him, and tries to hurl him over a cliff.
All Jesus did was to tell a couple of Bible stories that his listeners already knew. As a result, they wanted to murder him. Those who were most familiar with him turned against him, and wanted to put him to death.
No doubt, when the writer of the Gospel of Luke thinks about Jesus, he has the ancient prophets in mind, those unmanageable people who got up and spoke a Word from God. Luke is well aware that Jesus stands at the end of a long line of prophetic succession. And for him, that's the root of all the trouble.
According to the story, some friends feared for his safety. In chapter 13, they warn Jesus, "Stay away from the Holy City. Your life is in danger." But Jesus replies to them out of the side of his mouth: "I must go to Jerusalem, I absolutely must; because that's the city that always kills the prophets."
Not long after that, Jesus comes around the bend on Palm Sunday. He sees the city, stops dead in his tracks, and begins to weep. "Jerusalem, Jerusalem! If only you knew the things that make for peace. Instead you are too busy murdering the prophets."
Even on Easter: the news came out that Jesus was risen; but his own disciples didn't believe it. Jesus joins two of them on the road to Emmaus, but they do not recognize them. So as they walk, Jesus interprets the Bible. He reminds them of what the Good Book says. And it fills his disciples with heartburn.
Luke wants us to know that the most scandalous thing we can ever do is to hear the Bible. The most outrageous thing we can do is to take the Bible seriously, not only as a comforting word, but also as a deeply disturbing word. The main reason why it is so disturbing is that it reminds us that God does not play by our rules or stick to our boundaries.
Some of you have heard about Clarence Jordan, founder of Koinonia Farm in Georgia. He started a peanut farm and tried to run it the same way he thought Jesus would run it. He believed in a good wage for an honest day's work. He believed in taking care of the land and those who work it. And he believed that all people -- black and white -- could work together and stand together. It was the early 1950s, and his local Baptist church did not agree with his thoughts on racial equality.
One time, an agricultural student from Florida State University visited Koinonia Farm for the weekend. The student was from India, and said, "I've never gone to a Christian worship service. I would like to go." Clarence took him to Rehoboth Baptist Church, and it is reported that "the presence of his dark skin miraculously chilled the hot, humid southern Georgia atmosphere."4 It didn't matter that he was from India. He had dark skin, not a red neck --and so he did not fit in.
After worship, the pastor drove out to Jordan's farm and said, "You can't come with somebody like that. It causes disunity in our church." Jordan tried to explain, but the pastor wasn't listening.
Sometime later, a group of church leaders went out to the farm to plead with Clarence to keep undesirable people out of their church. As the story goes, Clarence promised to apologize before the congregation if somebody could prove he had done something wrong. Then he handed a Bible to a man in the group and said, "Can you tell me what sin I have committed by bringing a stranger to church?"
The man slammed down the book and said, "Don't give me any of this Bible stuff!"
Clarence retorted, "I'm not giving you any Bible stuff. I'm asking you to give it to me."
The man and the others did not know what to say; so they slipped out. When they got back to the church, they wrote a letter and said, "Mr. Jordan, you are no longer welcome in our church, because you keep bringing in the wrong kind of people."
As one commentator notes, "Jesus is not acceptable in his own country because his mission extends beyond his own country."5 Israel was called to be a light to the nations, a beacon of God's mercy for all people everywhere. When God's light began to shine in Jesus of Nazareth, it exposed dark crevasses everywhere, even in Israel. Some of the people slithered out of the dark and tried to snuff out the light.
It is much more comforting to believe that you have learned all you need to learn, to affirm that the way you have always done it before is a good way to keep on doing it. That is a satisfying way to ride through the whitewater of change. Just hang on and coast for a while. It works fairly well, until you realize that the way you always did it before may not have been the way it was always done.
Remember a few years ago? There was a piece in a national magazine about a scholar in a major university. After years of careful historical research, this shy professor discovered there was a period in the Middle Ages when the Roman Catholic Church approved of, and actually conducted, marriages between gay couples. He had the facts to prove it. And the Vatican tried to squelch his research in a hurry.
In Nazareth, a sermon turned sour. It started out sounding so familiar and comforting. And then Jesus raised a question: "How far is God's reach?" It was, and still is, a troubling issue. To think that the reach of God might far extend our own! To consider that the kind of people with whom God might choose to associate is different from our list. That is disturbing.
I worshiped one Sunday at a church in a seaside city in another state. The 11:00 service was jammed for something they called "Scottish Heritage Sunday." All the men were wearing plaid skirts. Some of the women were, too. I looked around that sun-tanned congregation while the bagpipes were playing. It was obvious from their appearance that most of those people in that congregation had gotten off their yachts, walked up the boulevard past all the specialty shops, and entered the church. They seemed so comfortable and settled. I, on the other hand, didn't feel for a minute like I fit in. And I sat there thinking, "Good thing there isn't a ghetto around here, or a Gay Pride parade on the street outside, or visitors from India -- because people like that wouldn't be welcome."
Oh, I know -- every church likes to paint a big sign and put it above the door: "We are a friendly church. Everybody is welcome." But when you go inside some churches, you realize it is reserved seating only.
Jesus looked at his Jewish congregation and said, "Let me tell you a Bible story. Remember Elijah? He was the greatest of all our prophets. And there was a famine in the land of Israel for three years and six months. Crops withered. The soil cracked. Not a drop of rain for years. And there were a lot of widows in the land of Israel in the time of Elijah. But remember where he went? God sent Elijah to a Gentile woman in Sidon."
"Let me tell you another story," Jesus said. "Remember Elisha? He followed Elijah, and whatever spirit Elijah had, well, Elisha was given a double share of it. He was a powerful man. And in his time, there were many people with leprosy in the land of Israel. They were sick and covered with sores. But Elisha didn't heal any of them. Instead he was sent to Na'aman, a Gentile army commander in Syria. And he healed the Gentile; he didn't heal any of the Jews."
When the Jewish people heard this, they were absolutely furious. It suddenly struck them what Jesus was really saying. He was declaring the disturbing news that God loves everybody, particularly those beyond their tight, exclusive circle. It was, and is, a scandalous thing to say.
The only thing more disturbing is to remember how that is the sort of thing that is written down in our Bibles.
____________
1. As reported in Matthew 13:57, Mark 6:4, Luke 4:24, and John 4:44.
2. Thomas G. Long, The Senses of Preaching (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1988), p. 31.
3. I am grateful to Dr. Fred B. Craddock for these insights.
4. The story is reported by Dallas Lee, The Cotton Patch Evidence: The Story of Clarence Jordan and the Koinoia Farm Experiment (New York: Harper and Row, 1971), pp. 75-76.
5. Luke Timothy Johnson, Sacra Pagina: The Gospel of Luke (Collegeville, Minn.: The Liturgical Press, 1991), p. 82.
